Chapter 38 #2
For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse.
Then her hands start moving again, dragging the soap along her skin with more care.
She washes her arms, her shoulders, the column of her throat.
There’s something almost hypnotic about it, the slide of her hands over wet skin, the way the firelight catches the water droplets on her shoulders.
She’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed on the water, on her own hands, on anything except me.
When she reaches her breasts, she hesitates.
“Keep going.”
Her eyes flash, but the soap moves over the curves of her chest. Her nipples harden further under her own touch, and her breath hitches slightly.
“Lower.”
Her hands slide down her stomach, dipping below the surface of the water.
“Slower.”
A small sound escapes her, but she obeys. The tension in her shoulders, the stiffness of her spine, makes it clear how much she hates this. Hates being watched, hates being told what to do, and hates that she agreed to any of it.
“Stop.”
Her hands still. I stand and begin to undress.
Shirt first, pulling it over my head and letting her see the marks that trace across my chest, ribs, and arms—the black lines that speak of rank and victories, of battles fought before her grandmother’s grandmother was born.
I’ve done this a thousand times. Stripped for someone’s pleasure, let them watch while I revealed myself piece by piece.
But those times I had no choice. The collar burned if I refused, and the alternative was worse than compliance.
This is different. This time, I’m the one who set the terms.
I unlace my boots and pull them off. Then my hands go to the laces of my pants … and I pause. For a moment I’m somewhere else—in a bedchamber with silk sheets and the cloying smell of perfume, with a woman who watches me out of hungry eyes while I strip.
I stop, and force myself to breathe. Focus on the floor beneath my feet, and the crackle of the fire behind me.
I’m here. In this room. And the female in the tub agreed to this.
I push the fabric down and step out.
Her eyes drop down to where I’m already hard and she looks away quickly. Then back. Then away again.
“You can look.” I’m surprised at how amused I sound.
Her eyes return to my body like she can’t help herself, and a flush spreads down her throat and across her chest.
I cross to the tub and step in.
The water rises as I lower myself down, lapping at the copper walls and sloshing against her. I settle against the opposite end with my legs stretched out on either side of her, close enough that I could touch her if I wanted to.
I don’t. Not yet.
She’s pressed against the far end of the tub, her shoulders hunched, her arms still wrapped around her drawn up knees.
“Come here.”
She doesn’t move.
“Alleria.” I let her name fall off my tongue, low and dark. “Come here.”
Slowly, she uncurls herself and moves through the water toward me, reluctantly. When she’s close enough, I catch her hips and pull her over my legs. Her thighs spread over mine, her breasts press against my chest, and my erection is trapped between us, hard against the soft skin of her stomach.
She inhales sharply, every muscle in her body locking tight.
I keep my hands on her hips and hold still, letting her feel the heat of my skin against hers.
She won’t meet my eyes. Her hands hover at her sides, uncertain where to put them, and her breathing is shallow and quick.
I slide one hand up her side, over the curve of her ribs, and up until my fingertips skirt the edge of her breast. Goosebumps rise on her skin beneath my palm.
My hand continues upward, over her shoulder, the side of her neck, until I can wrap my fingers into her hair, and tilt her head to one side, baring the long line of her throat.
The bruise I left there is dark against her pale skin.
I lean in and press my mouth to it. A shiver runs through her, and her hands come up to brace against my shoulders.
I don’t move, my lips resting against the mark I made, letting her pulse hammer against my mouth.
Then I trace my tongue along the edge of it, and a small, startled sound escapes her.
Her fingernails bite into my shoulders. I ignore her, taking my time with her throat.
There’s no rush. I have until sunrise, and I intend to use every moment of it.
I work my way along her neck, up to her ear, making her breath catch, along her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat where the collar I gave her rests, and back to the pulse that flutters against my tongue.
By the time I lift my head, some of the tension has bled out of her body. Her head has fallen back, her eyes are closed, and her breathing has deepened, becoming slower and heavier. She’s not completely relaxed, but she’s no longer holding herself like she’s expecting me to hurt her.
“Put your hands on my chest.”
Her eyes open, and she blinks, then presses her palms flat against me in a hesitant move.
“Follow the marks with your fingertips.”
Her fingers find the edge of one of the black lines, one that curves from my shoulder down across my chest, and she traces it lightly. Down over my ribs, to where the mark branches and spreads, and back up to where another line cuts horizontally beneath my collarbone.
I watch her face as she explores me. The furrow of concentration between her brows. The way her lips have parted slightly. The curiosity that’s slowly replacing the fear in her eyes.
Her fingers brush my nipple and I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
She pulls back, eyes darting to mine.
“Do it again.”
Her eyes search my face, but she does as I ask, slower this time, watching me as her fingers circle and press.
Heat lances through me, and my hands tighten on her hips.
She does it again … then again … each touch a little more confident, as she realizes she can affect me, that she has some power here.
Her other hand slides lower, following the mark that runs down my stomach. And stops.
Her fingers are inches away from where I’m pressed against her. The pulse in her neck is racing, and she’s looking at me now, uncertain what to do.
“Keep going.”
Her fingers stroke along my length, and then wrap around me. Her grip is too loose, holding me as though she’s not quite sure what to do. I cover her hand with mine, tightening her grip, and move her along me, up and down, in firm hard strokes. A rough sound escapes my throat.
Her eyes fly to my face, and she watches me, cataloging my reactions, noting what makes me groan, what makes my breath catch, and what makes my hips shift beneath her.
The pressure builds with each stroke, and my head falls back against the edge of the tub, my eyes closing as I lose myself in her touch.
For three hundred years, hands have touched me without consent. Taken what they wanted while I let them. I learned to go away in my head, to retreat to a place where their hands couldn’t reach me. But I’m here now. Feeling every stroke of her fingers, every shift of her weight on my lap.
I reach down and stop her hand. “Enough.”
She stills, and when I open my eyes, she’s staring at me, flushed and breathing hard.
“Out of the tub, and on the bed.”
She climbs off my lap and out of the tub, water streaming down her body and pooling on the floor, and walks to the bed. She sits on the edge of the mattress, her fingers curled into the sheets, her knees pressed together.
I follow her, and kneel in front of her.
Cold stone. Candlelight. A woman’s thighs spread before me, her hand already reaching for my hair.
I breathe through it.
I’m here. The floor is carpeted, not stone. The woman before me is my choice. Mine. She’s looking down at me with wide eyes, not hungry ones.
I put my hands on her knees.
“Open.”
She hesitates, then lets her knees fall apart. Not all the way, she’s still resisting me, still wary. I use my hands to force them wider, then lean in and press my mouth to the inside of her thigh.
She jolts, a gasp escaping her. I stay there, my lips against her skin. Then I move higher, and the tremor that runs through her is nothing like the impatient squirming I remember. She’s not grabbing my hair, or dragging my face where she wants it.
I breathe her in. Salt and musk and heat. Then lean in close, letting my breath wash over her, and she whimpers. When I finally press my mouth to her center, she cries out, sharp and startled, and her hands fly to my shoulders.
The first taste of her floods my senses. I explore her with my tongue, and with every stroke she responds a little more. A whimper. A moan. A gasp. Her hands tighten on my shoulders, then one slides up, and her fingers thread into my hair.
Did I tell you to stop?
Fingers yanking my head back. The taste of her on my tongue while I choke—
“C-Cairn?”
Her fingers have gone still. I lift my head a little, forcing air into my lungs. My hands have locked around her thighs hard enough to bruise. It’s a battle to relax them.
“Keep your hand there.” The words come out as a snarl, and she flinches.
“I don’t th—”
“Keep. It. There.”
She blinks at me, but her hand stays where it is, resting against my scalp like she’s afraid to move it.
She’s tense now—my fault. All the fear and nerves she’d lost are back because of my reaction to her touch.
So I return my mouth to her thigh, kissing and licking, stroking my fingers up her calves, the backs of her knees, until the muscles in her legs relax again.
Then I bring my mouth back to her again.
Every slight shift of her fingers sends tension coiling down my spine. But I keep going. I work her with my tongue, and I stay here, feeling the softness of her thighs against my cheeks, and the hitch in her breathing when her hips start to rock.